The Manhattan Project

Photograph by Terry Richardson. Fashion editor: Jason Rider. Grooming by Dennis Lanni using Oribe at Art Department.Ricky Gervais is having a love affair with New York, especially its transformation into a wonderland around Thanksgiving.

When dairy cows are let out of the barns in spring, after a long winter of dried feed and artificial lights, they play by jumping around and rolling in the grass, before they start grazing, because they are so happy and excited to be back in a field. That’s me, every time I land in New York. I can’t believe my luck. I live and work here.

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When The New York Times asked me if I’d write something, I was flattered. I said, “I’ll write about New York.” They said, “Perfect.” I had a few weeks to write the article, but we had to do the photo shoot urgently, since I was leaving for London soon. They sent a limo to pick me up. Because the United Nations delegates were in town, it was late. I was furious. How dare they delay my ride just because they were discussing the future of the world? After 20 minutes of waiting, I got a call saying the car was a block away. This was my chance to cut my nose off to spite my face, and instead of getting into a beautiful air-conditioned Mercedes, I decided to hail a yellow cab and risk my life and hence teach humanity a lesson. I got in and buckled up. As I expected, it was like being in Tron.

The driver was swearing to himself in a strange Eastern European accent, and at one point he took me up a quiet cobbled street. It was at this point that I wanted to let him know I was good friends with Liam Neeson, just in case. I arrived at the photo studio in one piece, did the session and then went to “Late Night With Jimmy Fallon” to do a sketch with false arms. From there, my girlfriend and I went to dinner with the Seinfelds and Jake Gyllenhaal. This is a typical day in New York — by which I mean there is no such thing.

Now I just have to write an article. Here goes.

Of all the things that have happened in my life, I’d say that living in New York is the closest thing to a dream coming true. I don’t profess to really know America. I haven’t even visited “America” in any real sense. Back in Britain people ask me what America is like. I say, “Well, I only really know L.A. and New York.” Then they ask me which I prefer. I tell them New York. Then they ask me what the difference is. I say, “In New York, at least they stab you in the front.”

I guess I always wanted to work in America, but deep down never believed I would. Not because I thought I’d try and fail, but because I thought I’d probably never try. And the truth is I didn’t really try. It just sort of happened. Let me explain. I was a working-class kid from a council estate in England, so things like making it in America were “pie in the sky.” And not American pie either. That pie would be filled with the fruits of summer, inspirational and symbolic of the land of opportunity. My pie in the sky was British — soggy and stuffed with gray meat. I don’t blame my poor socioeconomic beginnings for my lack of ambition. I never really lacked confidence as a working-class kid. I was lazy, but I always felt that if I could be bothered, I could do anything I wanted. It was the bothering that was the problem, and that has nothing to do with being poor — it has to do with being British. Ambition and self-confidence are cynically received in my tiny nation. For an ex-empire, it’s got ego issues.

It was fiction that first made me fall in love with New York. TV and movies. It seemed an iconic, magical place. I was a child of television. From as young as I can remember, I’d sit in front of the set mesmerized. I learned about science and nature, my first loves, along with pop culture, music, rock ‘n’ roll and places I was sure I would never go. TV made me want to do everything. And the people on that tiny little black and white box were living proof that I could.

I was the youngest of four children, and my older siblings got me into Elvis, Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Motown, the Marx Brothers and Woody Allen. I even got into my mum’s records, like Jim Reeves and Frankie Laine, and her favorite films: westerns and anything with Jimmy Cagney. (I got my brutal honesty from her, too. I was the youngest child by 11 years, and when I was about 12, I asked her why that was. She casually said: “Because you were a mistake.” We both laughed. It’s things like that that kept me British.)

In the mid-’70s, one show in particular, “Rhoda,” gave me an adrenaline rush — the thought that one day I might leave the nest and head to a bigger, scarier, more exciting city. Rhoda was fighting to stay afloat in the harshness and turbulence of all the things she loved but had to conquer: New York, her mother, men, work, herself. She was a ’70s superwoman, and it was all set amid the backdrop of Manhattan. That’s what we’re really talking about here, I’m afraid. I heard a quote once (was it by Quentin Crisp?) that is spot on: “When an Englishman says ‘America,’ he means ‘New York.’ And when he says, ‘New York,’ he means ‘Manhattan.’ ”

Here’s another favorite quote: “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life” — Samuel Johnson. I’m not tired of London. I’m privileged to live between the two greatest cities in the world. I like them for similar reasons, too. History. Architecture. Resilience. Change. Diversity. Tension. Art. Opportunity. The big difference, I guess, is that New York is always turned up to 11: London with a surge of power on the galactic grid. Vibrant. Exciting. And it never runs out. “When a man is tired of New York, he should go to London to get some sleep” — Ricky Gervais.

As a foreigner, I have never felt so welcome and immediately at home as I did when I first came to New York. I guess that was what the city was built on in many ways: “Bring us your huddled masses.”

(I’m not as much of a mass as I used to be, but I’m still quite huddled.) Thomas Wolfe got it right when he wrote, “One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.” I immediately loved the attitude. Americans applaud ambition and openly reward success, while Britons are more comfortable with life’s losers. We embrace the underdog until he’s no longer the underdog. We like to bring authority down a peg or two. Americans say “have a nice day” whether they mean it or not. Britons are terrified to say this. We tell ourselves it’s because we don’t want to sound insincere, but I think it might be for the opposite reason. We don’t want to celebrate anything too soon. Failure and disappointment lurk around every corner, a product of our upbringing. While Americans are brought up to believe they can be the next president of the United States, Britons are told, “It won’t happen for you.”

My first real taste of working in America was planning the American remake of “The Office.” The differences in the American and British versions reflect the differences between our nations in many ways. We had to make Michael Scott a slightly nicer guy, with a rosier outlook to life. He could still be childish, and insecure, and even a bore, but he couldn’t be too mean.

Network America has to give people a reason to like you, not just a reason to watch you. But in Britain, we stop watching things like “Big Brother” when the villain is evicted. We don’t want to watch a bunch of idiots having a good time. We want them to be as miserable as us. America rewards upfront, on-your-sleeve niceness. A perceived wicked streak is somewhat frowned upon. I’m always torn between the two. My humor is undoubtedly British, but my comedy is more American. I want a romantic thread. Some warmth. Some reward for goodness. And since I’ve been working in America, I’ve decided I’d rather someone say “have a nice day” and not mean it than be rude and mean it.

So what was the moment I really fell in love with New York? It was during the filming of my first lead role in a movie, “Ghost Town.” We shot it from October to December, and to see New York effortlessly metamorphose from autumn to winter was magical. I remember filming in the park on Halloween, a holiday not celebrated with much conviction in Britain. Not so in New York. At one point I realized I couldn’t tell the cast and extras from the parents and children going to school. People make such an effort here. Then I saw every shop and home transform into a wonderland around Thanksgiving in time for Christmas. Then there was basically a lot of eating. Perfect.

We filmed all over the Upper East Side, and I loved the “set” so much that I bought a piece of it. I won’t tell you exactly where it is, because — and excuse my English — as positive and polite as you are, you still have some right mental nutters in your beautiful country. It’s in a building where apparently Grace Kelly once lived. Bet she was never seen standing outside on the pavement swearing her head off about a limo being late. Anyway, it’s that time of year again when we show good will to all men. I feel bad about whinging about my limo driver. Hope he didn’t get into trouble. I think I’ll send him a present. Maybe an alarm clock and a map?

A version of this article appears in print on 12/02/2012, on page M2162 of the NewYork edition with the headline: The Manhattan Project.